Harry woke. He had heard something. Something that drowned the sound of his running footsteps in the corridor and the avalanche. He looked at his watch. 01.34. The broken curtain pole leaned against the window frame and formed the silhouette of a tulip. He got up and went to the window and peered down into the backyard. A bin lay on its side, still rattling around. He rested his forehead against the glass.
22
It was early, and the morning rush-hour traffic was creeping along at a whisper towards Gronlandsleiret as Truls walked up to Police HQ. He caught sight of the red poster on the linden tree just before he arrived at the doors with the curious portholes. Then he turned, walked calmly back. Past the slow-moving queues in Oslo gate to the cemetery.
The cemetery was as deserted as usual at this time. At least with respect to the living. He stopped in front of the headstone to A. C. Rud. There were no messages written on it, ergo it had to be pay day.
He crouched down and dug the earth beside the stone. Caught hold of the brown envelope and pulled it out. Resisted the temptation to open it and count the money there and then, stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He was about to get up, but a sudden sense that he was being watched made him stay in the crouch for a couple of seconds, as if meditating about A. C. Rud and the transient nature of life or some such bullshit.
‘Stay where you are, Berntsen.’
A shadow had fallen over him. And with it a chill, as if the sun was hidden behind a cloud. Truls Berntsen felt as though he were in free fall, and his stomach lurched into his chest. So this was what it would be like. Being exposed.
‘We have a different type of job for you this time.’
Truls felt terra firma beneath his feet again. The voice. The slight accent. It was him. Truls glanced to his side. Saw the figure standing with bowed head two gravestones away, apparently praying.
‘You have to find out where they’ve hidden Oleg Fauke. Look straight ahead!’
Truls stared at the stone in front of him.
‘I’ve tried,’ he said. ‘But the move hasn’t been recorded anywhere. Nowhere I can access at any rate. And no one I’ve spoken to has heard anything about the guy, so my guess is they’ve given him another name.’
‘Talk to those in the know. Talk to the defence counsel. Simonsen.’
‘Why not the mother? She must-’
‘No women!’ The words came like a whiplash. Had there been other people in the cemetery they would surely have heard them. Then, calmer: ‘Try the defence counsel. And if that doesn’t work…’
In the ensuing pause Berntsen heard the whoosh through the cemetery treetops. It must have been the wind; that was what had suddenly made everything so cold.
‘… then there’s a man called Chris Reddy,’ the voice continued. ‘On the street he’s known as Adidas. He deals in-’
‘Speed. Adidas means amphet-’
‘Shut up, Berntsen. Just listen.’
Truls shut up. And listened. The way he had shut up whenever anyone with a similar voice had told him to shut up. Listened when they told him to dig muck. Told him…
The voice gave an address.
‘You’ve heard a rumour that Adidas has been going round boasting he shot Gusto Hanssen. So you take him in for questioning. And he makes a no-holds-barred confession. I’ll leave it to you to agree on the details so that it’s a hundred per cent credible. First, though, try to make Simonsen talk. Have you understood?’
‘Yes, but why would Adidas-’
‘Why is not your problem, Berntsen. Your sole question should be “how much”.’
Truls Berntsen swallowed. And kept swallowing. Dug shit. Swallowed shit. ‘How much?’
‘That’s right, yes. Sixty thousand.’
‘Hundred thousand.’
No answer.
‘Hello?’
But all that could be heard was the whisper of the morning congestion.
Bernsten sat still. Glanced to the side. No one there. Felt the sun beginning to warm him again. And sixty thousand was good. It was.
There was still mist on the ground as Harry swung up in front of the main building on Skoyen farm at ten in the morning. Isabelle Skoyen stood on the steps, smiling and slapping a little riding whip against the thigh of her black jodhpurs. While Harry was getting out of the car he heard the gravel crunch under her boots.
‘Morning, Harry. What do you know about horses?’
Harry slammed the car door. ‘I’ve lost a lot of money on them. Does that help?’
‘So you’re a gambler as well?’
‘As well?’
‘I’ve done a bit of detective work too. Your achievements are offset by your vices. That, at least, is what your colleagues claim. Did you lose the money in Hong Kong?’
‘Happy Valley racecourse. It only happened once.’
She began to walk towards a low, red building, and he had to quicken his pace to keep up with her. ‘Have you ever done any riding, Harry?’
‘My grandfather had a sturdy old horse in Andalsnes.’
‘Experienced rider then.’
‘Another one-off. My grandfather said horses weren’t toys. He said riding for pleasure showed a lack of respect for working animals.’
She stopped in front of a wooden stand holding two narrow leather saddles. ‘Not a single one of my horses has ever seen or will ever see a cart or plough. While I saddle up I suggest you head over there…’ She pointed to the farmhouse. ‘You’ll find some suitable clothes belonging to my ex-husband in the hall wardrobe. We don’t want to ruin your elegant suit, do we?’
In the wardrobe Harry found a sweater and a pair of jeans that were in fact big enough. The ex-husband must have had smaller feet, though, because he couldn’t get any of the shoes on, until he found a pair of used blue Norwegian Army trainers at the back.
When he re-emerged in the yard Isabelle was ready and waiting with two saddled horses. Harry opened the passenger door of the hired car, sat inside with his legs out, changed shoes, removed the insoles, left them on the car floor and reached for his sunglasses from the glove compartment. ‘Ready.’
‘This is Medusa,’ Isabelle said, patting a large sorrel on the muzzle. ‘She’s an Oldenburger from Denmark, perfect breed for dressage. Ten years old and the boss of the herd. And this is Balder, he’s five years old, a gelding, so he’ll follow Medusa.’
She passed him the reins to Balder and swung herself up on Medusa.
Harry put his left foot in the left stirrup and rose into the saddle. Without waiting for a command the horse began to walk briskly after Medusa.
Harry had understated the case when he said he had ridden only once, but this was quite different from his grandfather’s steadfast battleship of a jade. He had to balance in the saddle, and when he squeezed his knees against the slim horse’s sides he could feel its ribs and the movement of its muscles. And when Medusa accelerated on the path across the field and Balder responded, even this minor increase in pace made Harry feel he had a Formula One animal between his legs. At the end of the field they joined a path that disappeared into the forest and onto the ridge. Where the path forked round a tree Harry tried to steer Balder to the left, but the horse ignored him and followed in Medusa’s hoof prints to the right.
‘I thought stallions were the leaders of a herd,’ Harry said.
‘As a rule they are,’ Isabelle said over her shoulder. ‘But it’s all about character. A strong, ambitious and smart mare can outcompete all of them if she wants.’
‘And you want.’
